A Rumor in the Vaults
by DwaejiTokki
Summary: Arthur discovers Merlin's secret, yet Merlin does not know this.


A Rumor in the Vaults

 **Summary** : Arthur discovers Merlin's secret, yet Merlin does not know this.

 **Rating** : T, for death.

 **Disclaimer** : I own neither _Merlin_ nor Poe's _The Cask of Amontillado._

THERE is no denying that magic is evil. As my father before me I too must carry out any measure necessary to Purge the evil from my kingdom, to save the innocents from the molten golden wrath of those wicked wielders. There are those who would claim that it is not magic itself that is evil, but those who use it—that is not the case. It is magic which corrupts those who practice it, and thus they cannot be saved nor welcomed into the kingdom of God in the afterlife. Magic births suffering, and suffering births death, which births revenge, which births evil, which births _magic_. Thus I intend to break this cycle and unite a pure Albion, one that is unafflicted by evil, by terror, by sorcery.

Magic cannot be trusted, and those who use it cannot, by extension, be trusted, either. Though it pains me to do so—greatly so—I must carry out this plan. I must protect my people, protect myself. No sorcerer may live here. That I cannot allow.

It must be understood that I give no indication that I have learned his secret. As far as he knows, he is safe. But he is in a precarious position. So the puppeteer becomes the puppet, and I hold him in one hand with my blade in the other, prepared to cut his strings and render him worthless—dead.

He must die.

My heart shall blacken, surely, once I do this. A cowardly plan it is, but I could not bear to see his reputation sundered like so many sorcerers, to hear his screams as he burns upon the pyre. It is perhaps better that he remain intact in the memories of those who are left behind. I shall carry this secret to my grave, and so shall he. He sooner than I.

If ever Merlin had any weak point, it was his trustiness. No matter any rumors or abuse he suffered at the hands of a supposed friend, he harbors no ill will towards him. His smile is everlasting, his happiness unquenchable. He is like a breath of wind on a hot day, or the warmth of sunlight as it reappears from behind a cloud.

Yet it must be an act.

Magic is evil; therefore, Merlin is corrupted.

Merlin's _friendship_ , if it can be called that, will be his doom. That is what I shall use to my advantage: his trust. It is that, or such _arrogance_ that he believes he can continue to practice such malice under my very nose. Such an arrogance in his abilities that he does not believe I would discover such treachery!

But I have seen it with mine own eyes, his betrayal of my kindness, of my love.

It is but two days since our return from that patrol, and I have spent much time devising this plan riddled with cowardice. It must be carried out this very evening. No one must ever know of it.

At this time in the evening Merlin finishes with his chores. It is now that I will accost him and trick him—such devices usually reserved to thieves and cowards, but ones which I must resort to. Merlin is too cunning to apprehend otherwise, I know.

"Merlin!" I call.

The man who I dared to call friend halts in his tracks and turns to me, eyebrows raised. His ridiculous smile lights up his face, and he lopes carelessly over to me. "Yes, Sire?"

I cannot allow my play to slip. I must act so perfectly that he will never suspect my knowledge. "I have heard," I tell him falsely, "that in our absence there has been a theft in the Vaults below the citadel. I am going to investigate, and you will accompany me."

His smile falls away, brow creasing in concern. Of course _he_ would be concerned with such a thing—a magical item disappearing into the hands of another sorcerer. "Then let us go, Arthur," he responds gravely, nodding.

We walk together up the steps to the castle and inside, following the familiar hallways that lead deep into the heart of Camelot. There we descend, myself bringing a flaming torch to alight our way.

At last Merlin speaks: "What has been taken?"

"A necklace of some sort," I answer. "Apparently of strong magical qualities."

"Who has taken it?"

"If we knew that, would we be investigating, _Mer_ lin?" It feels so strange to banter as though all is well, as though we are still brothers—of a sort.

Merlin falls silent at that, conceding to my point.

Down, down, and down we go, the air growing chill and damp. The suffocating scent of moldering stone presses us, but we continue. Our steps echo eerily, and for a moment I imagine that they are the warnings of some shadowy creature. But Merlin pays no heed to it, and we at last reach the landing.

Before us is the Vaults, which contain all of the items of magical origin and enchantment that happens across the kingdom and is confiscated.

Beside me, Merlin shivers, eyes locked penetratingly on the room past the iron bars.

"You go back, Merlin," I command sternly, fixating his startled eyes with my own. "You're no use to me ill. There's a draft up your petticoats that'll give you cold."

He immediately looks affronted at the insult, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin defiantly. Just as I expected. "I'm fine," he answers.

I step forward, loosening the key ring clasped to my belt. I hide that I did not smirk at him, as I am in no bantering mood. Our friendship, if ever there was one, is in ruins. It cannot be rebuilt.

Magic is evil.

With a loud click that reverberates through the corridors, the door unlocks and I swing it wide open. Merlin enters first, casting his eyes every which way.

Nothing, of course, appears to be missing. He is prompted by his own curiosity, his own insatiable desire, to proceed farther.

I follow closely at his heels, my heart beginning to pound with excitement.

We maneuver through the Vaults in silence, he observing his surroundings and I carefully watching him. When he reaches the far wall which is covered by a hanging carpet, he stops and turns around, confusion evident in his eyes.

I give him no chance—I cannot do.

I shove him, hard, and he falls back, tearing down the colorful cloth with him.

The aforementioned carpet does not simply cover the wall; it hides behind it the small opening that leads to the unfinished, excavated room. When Camelot had been built, it was going to become another room, but the discovery of an underground spring halted that and it was left to stagnate, serving no use.

It is in this pool that Merlin lands with a splash, the iciness of the water shocking him and causing him to splutter and gasp. I use this disorientation and confusion to my advantage.

Earlier I had come down to this place and fastened, via a carpenter's bolt, to the stone wall a pair of manacles. These manacles had inscribed within the cuffs runes which dampened and altogether blocked off a sorcerer's magic. I had tested their security myself with my strength, and they held remarkably well. I am sure that they will hold long enough for me to complete my unsavory task.

As Merlin struggles to gather his wits, I set the torch down and shackle him with ease, and then back out of the pool. The only evidence of this is the water soaked into my boots, chilling my toes painfully. I can only imagine the stinging and numbness the sorcerer feels in his own limbs.

Merlin is trapped.

Using the orange light cast from the torch, I remove a large rug from a pile of masonry I had ordered sent down there. The demand, of course, had not been questioned. I quickly began the bottom-most layer, the bricks clacking loudly.

Merlin looks on in dawning horror, shivering violently.

"It is for the best," I tell him, though it was by no means a comfort to either of us.

I work diligently, conscious that my presence will soon be missed. All I can hear is my own steady breathing, the splashing of water, the desperate clanking of chains, and Merlin's lies and cries for mercy.

"Only for you, Arthur!" he cries. "I was born with it! I use it only for good! Arthur!"

And so on.

All lies, and to no avail.

The bricklays grow taller and taller, and soon we can no longer see one another. Merlin continues to beg. And still I work, as quickly as I dare, and at last I reach the top. I must strain to push the bricks in place.

It must be very dark and cold in the place where Merlin is. Yet I feel nothing.

"For the love of God, Arthur!" Merlin screams within.

"Yes," I say, hesitating with the last piece in hand, "for the love of God."

I push it into place.

END.


End file.
